Grey Souls
by SquareEyed
Summary: Basic principal, really. The good souls go someplace nice, the bad souls not so much. However there is a sort of 'grey area' in regards to how a soul seems to commit an equal amount of good and bad acts. There are more of these Grey Souls than there are good or bad, in fact. Death finds himself in a scheme to give these souls a clean slate and Draco Malfoy is the first collected.
1. The Grey Area

To collect the souls of humans for a living sounds like a morbid job. Death disagrees. Or perhaps he sees morbidity in a different way to the mortal beings on Earth. Whichever way, it is his sole (hah hah) purpose to carry out his eternal career without flaw – the fact that he enjoys it is irrelevant.

Every soul on Earth whose body can no longer contain them (and has not been tied to Earth by the owner before their demise) is collected by Death. The ones that roll willingly into his hands irritate him, as they bested him. It's the ones he's had to hunt for years, decades, millennia, that he relishes snatching from the shells that are their lifeless bodies. Not eight decades ago he'd finally gotten his hands on the seventh fragment of the shredded remains of Tom Marvalo Riddle's soul, the notorious 'Lord Voldemort'. Flight of Death? Pfft! Tu rêves, maintenant tu es mort, mon Seigneur.

Yes, Death loves his job. However, he is only the deliverer. The minute the souls cradled in his arms leave the confines of Universe 896, they are passed through to the Main Office. He was an angel once; he knows the process as well as he does all the human languages. The souls are filtered into two piles: good, and bad.

Basic principal, really. The souls who've been primarily good in the duration of their lives get two options, a 'heavenly' afterlife, or a reincarnation into their universe (recycling of their souls, if you will) with no recollection of their previous lives. The bad souls, well, they don't get a choice, and where they go is not pretty. Personally Death thinks the folks living there are good company, but he's come to learn that humans don't find bone crushing, body twisting or eye popping funny.

Most of the angels sorting the souls are stuck up, prissy things that Death does his best to maintain as little communication with as possible. Some, however, intrigue him. They are a small group who frantically search for souls whose past actions leaves them in a sort of 'grey area' in regards to how they seemed to commit an equal amount of good and bad acts in one life. There are more of these Grey Souls than there are good or bad, in fact.

Most angels cast them into the bad pile without a single thought of it, but the small group of not-pretentious angels would list the names of the Grey Souls before putting them in a bad pile. One not stuck up angel named Argon had informed Death they were planning on requesting to the upper powers to create a 'middle zone' for the grey Souls.

Death doubted they would be successful, but he's polite enough to not have stated that.

Now, he's heading to the Main Office with a new batch of souls, none of which feared him, much to his disgruntlement.

The Main Office is a large block that nearly blends into the white void that surrounds it. One of the reasons he'd quit working here was the lack of decoration, and of colour; the soul collector before him had informed him that Universe 896 had so very much to see, and boy was he right. Colours, objects, shapes and patterns all merging together in an almost dizzying collaboration. It's beautiful.

Death walks through the solid white wall and gets a headache when he once more hears the repetitive thrum of angels bustling about, working as if they would be getting paid like humans do. Stuck up brats.

He places the souls on the receptionist's desk, who doesn't even spare him a glance, much to his relief. Small talk with the angels is a terrible fate to be bestowed upon him, or anyone, for that matter. Ready to return to Earth, Death almost basically races out of the Main Office – only to get stopped in his tracks by Argon.

"We've done it." Now that _is_ interesting.

"May I ask what you said?"

"We did it illegally." These angels are much more fun, for sure. If they had been like that during his time, he might not have ever left this place.

"If they knew…"

"They won't. But we need your help." Death chuckles, a sound that can haunt humans indefinitely.

"Go on."

"We're dealing with Grey Souls that haven't had justice, taking them from the bad place," Argon nervously eyes the busy workers behind Death. "It's going to be difficult, but the demons never can resist good deals."

"Oh, I am intrigued," Death's fascinated about the lengths of which these angels are willing to disobey, well, just about everything.

"Let's just say there are some things an angel should never have to experience." Argon shudders, and Death finds himself rolling his eyes. Does he have eyes? Mirrors never reflect him. Must be a human habit. They are interesting creatures, much less irritating than angels.

"Where do I fit into this elaborate scheme of yours?" A list is in Argon's hands before the sentence finished.

"We have a team working on spotting all the Grey Souls they can," he says, placing the unremarkable looking parchment onto Death's open palms. "Your job is to collect them and bring them to our base instead of here while carrying out your usual task for the good and bad souls."

Interesting. How very interesting. Regarding the parchment, he looks up to see Argon look almost apprehensive. It was here he realizes he's pretty much able to squash their futile attempt at redeeming these humans with a simple 'no'. It's tempting, as he knows the outcome would be highly entertaining. They'd be making more deals with the demons and boy would it be hilarious to watch.

Except, he finds that throughout his career as soul collector, he had developed a sort of fondness for humans. Screwing over the rogue angels would be screwing over humans, too. In all honesty, he's curious to know the outcome of this little experiment.

So, he exits Main Office, leaving behind a relieved Argon.

The first name on the list of Grey Souls is 'Draco Malfoy'.


	2. Malfoys and Potters

At the age of ninety-nine, he is laying on his bed, and, as it is, his deathbed. The house elves are scurrying about, panicking, leaving piles of food that would be untouched anyway. They summon a Healer, who says he has no hope of surviving beyond the next few weeks. He accepts the news, finding it oddly amusing he wouldn't quite reach his hundredth birthday.

"You have a rare disease, that's making you age prematurely and stopping the function of your organs. It usually occurs with witches or wizards exposed to dark magic or substances for long periods of time."

"My father was Lucius Malfoy."

"I haven't heard of him, my apologies."

"Probably should brush up on your History of Magic," Draco snorts, feeling a sudden jabbing pain in his chest. As he clutches the area with his shrivelled hand, the Healer reaches into his bag.

"I'm assuming he was involved in the Dark Arts."

"He was in Voldemort's inner circle." Healer Ben whistles, retrieving some vials of potion and placing them on the bedside table. Draco contemplates when he'd started saying the name of his childhood tourmenter, then eventually comes to the conclusion he doesn't care when somewhere in his abdomen starts throbbing.

"My parents are muggles," says Ben, holding one of the vials to the light, his other hand on his lap. "I couldn't imagine living then." There's a pause. Then, Draco moves his hand from his chest to Ben's resting hand; the young man stops scrutinizing the potion, regarding Draco curiously.

"I'm glad you didn't see that time." When Ben smiles, Draco moves his wrinkled hand to point at the position. "If that's pain relief, I don't want it."

"It will give you comfort, sir."

"Draco's fine. And I have dolor."

Ben looks at him in shock.

"That's an illegal herb. It also may be a contributor to your condition, Draco." The old man chuckles.

"I'm aware. I've been having it for a long time… figured I'd say it now because they can't put a dying man in Azkaban." Ben doesn't seem to know if he should scold him or laugh. In the end, he just shakes his head and puts the potions back in his bag.

"If there's anything you need, just tell your lovely elves to summon me again﹘"

Draco's bedroom door opens, with Joy the house elf waddling in; behind her is a tall woman, her red hair starting to grey, accompanied by an older man with green eyes he'd grown to miss.

"Thank you, Ben," he says; the Healer nods and brushes past the newcomers, and Joy follows suit.

In some ways the woman resembles her mother, particularly in spirit﹘but her hair, in her youth, was a much darker red than the signature Weasley ginger and her face is sharp rather than round. As for the man, well, he's the spitting image of Harry Potter. Unlike either of his parents, however, he's reserved and quiet. Sometimes, in some odd ways, Draco is reminded of his long dead godfather, Severus Snape.

"Lily! Albus! What a pleasant surprise." Lily's brows furrowed, her freckled forehead deeping her wrinkles with worry.

"How are you feeling, Uncle Draco?" She's the only person who calls him that; she is, although he would never say it aloud (not like he has much chance), his favourite Potter.

"Gah!" he waves a weary arm, giving them a toothy grin. "I'm fine."

"Joy says you're dying," she says anxiously, approaching the bedside and sitting where Ben had.

"I still have a few weeks left in me. Can't get rid of me that easily!" She laughs tearily, gripping his hand. Giving the back of her palm an affectionate kiss, he turns to observe the silent man still looming at the doorway.

"How is Scorpius?" he asks, heart hammering against his chest even though it hurts. The last time he had seen his son, Lily had been in her final year of Hogwarts. He doesn't regret many things in his life: he doesn't regret taking the Dark Mark, he doesn't regret standing by his Death Eater parents, he doesn't regret marrying Astoria Greengrass, who was cursed to have a short life… but he regrets not accepting his son for loving a muggle.

"Fine." Albus replies. The man doesn't want to be here, and Draco doesn't really blame him. He wishes he could go back to when the pair were just boys, racing through the Manor, Lily trotting after them whilst making all the vases float and James throwing dung bombs everywhere.

"And how's your brother?" he asks the pair at large. Glancing at Lily, he sees her smirk a little, Ginny's eyes lighting up.

"He has a surprise for you." He suspects he knows what. James Potter, particularly in his adolescence, was well-known for his wizarding parties that on many occasions got aurors involved. Draco was an unknown helper in providing him with… the less, uh, legal aspects. Finding himself also smirking, he lays his head against his pillow, his eyelids heavy.

"Wake me up for the surprise."

"You wouldn't be able to sleep through it." Lily laughs.

As it is, Ben had been wrong: Draco doesn't have a few weeks to live. He passes away in his sleep, Lily sitting beside him with a book in her hands and Albus pacing back and forth.

Death collects his somewhat hesitant soul, cradling it as he peers down at the girl. He remembers her grandmother, hair splayed around her like blood at the foot of a cot. Her son being alive made her soul easy to take… she was at peace with her death.

Death also remembers the son, Harry Potter. Many times he loitered around the boy, expecting his soul and coming back empty handed. It was a couple years ago, in a blood protection sacrifice much like his mother's, that he finally met the Boy Who Lived.

Albus Potter stops pacing abruptly. Death watches him seemingly make a decision. Drawing his wand, he flicks it and a patronus of a doe appears. Lily looks up from her book; she starts smiling.

"Scorpius, you should come. I never got to say bye to my Dad. I think you should take that chance."

In Death's hands, Draco Malfoy's soul warms slightly.


End file.
